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Authors: Anne Fortier

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“My beautiful Myrina,” he whispered, running a warm hand down her arm to close around the jackal bracelet. “Let us take this off right now—”

“No.” She moved her arm away.

“Don’t worry.” He was still kissing her, and still reaching for the bracelet. “I will do it for you.”

“No!” She shrank away from him, twisting her arm behind her back. “We cannot!”

“We cannot what?” He pulled her right back and pinned her, once more, beneath him. “Insult the little doggie? It didn’t seem to mind me kissing you, did it? In fact, I have a suspicion it is enjoying itself very much.”

But the damage was done.

“Please.” Myrina pressed a fist against her face, forcing back the tears. “I do not want to hurt you—”

Paris sat up, flushed and irritated. “Then why is it that everything you do invariably results in the most excruciating pain?” He rose with a groan and paced down the beach, swinging his mock sword at invisible adversaries.

Later, when he was saddling his horse, Myrina walked over to embrace him from behind. “I warned you,” she whispered, feeling a sadness so profound she could barely speak. “I have a vicious bite.”

Paris let his arms drop. “If only you did. But the gods, in their infinite hilarity, have given you the sweetest taste.” Turning, he took her face in his hands and kissed her once more, his face full of distress. “I should go and never come back, but I can’t. Meet me here tomorrow?”

For three more days they struggled, until at last, Paris plunged his sword and spear into the sand and fell to his knee with a headshake. “You … surrender?” said Myrina, standing awkwardly before him, daggers still raised.

“Myrina.” He clutched his face. “My beautiful Myrina. Will you never be mine? Am I destined to be second to a
dog
?”

She knelt down in front of him, desperate to relieve his anguish but afraid of what might happen if she tried.

“I have to return to Troy,” Paris said at last. “At first light.”

“No!” Myrina threw her arms around him. “Don’t leave me again. Please! Promise you will return right away—”

His head dropped. “I cannot.”

“But”—she pressed her cheek against his—”are you not … fond of me?”

Paris looked up, his eyes full of reproach. “Fond of you? Myrina, you are my
queen
—I want you more than I want life itself.” He swallowed, then went on with sudden determination. “Come to me. Come to Troy and be my wife.” He touched her chin, his eyes dark with solemnity. “Or stay here forever, enslaved by your imaginary mistress.”

Myrina stared at him, pushing back her tousled hair. “You would marry me?”

Paris shook his head. “Do you think I would teach just anyone to fight me to the death? I want you to be my wife. My one and only wife.” He took her by the neck and kissed her firmly on the lips. “There is a hill called Batieia just outside of Troy; I will post a man on it day and night, until you come. In fact, I will rename it ‘Myrina’s Hill’ in your honor.” Looking straight into her eyes, he took her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “A cold metal dog … or a man with a pulse beating in every limb?
You
must make that choice, but I beg you: Do it soon.”

M
YRINA RETURNED TO THE
farm after dark. Never had she felt its appeal more keenly—the wide-open doors and windows, glowing with familiar warmth, and the many voices raised in a chaotic chorus of merriment.

Walking through the garden door, she found everyone busily at work setting the dinner table, laughing at nothing in particular, and absorbed in all things unimportant, and suddenly she felt like a stranger, a trespasser, who had donned a stolen form to be admitted inside.

Not until that moment did it occur to Myrina how masterful she had become at ignoring her own desires—desires that had once been simple, but which had gradually become far less so. A year ago, when she and Lilli had walked through the desert together, she would have liked nothing more than to come upon a dinner table set by friends. And after leaving the Temple of the Moon Goddess in search of her stolen sisters she would surely have fallen to her knees with gratitude
had she known that one day soon, they would all—except one—be living in happy seclusion yet again, on a farm near the sea, surrounded by kind people and fertile lands.

But once her task was done and her sisters safe, her own wishes had fallen to the ground limp and obsolete, like the ropes men use to erect mighty walls. And she had fallen prey to the evil that attends every great architect: Once his building is complete, he cannot quietly inhabit it, enjoying the fruits of his labor, but must busy himself with plans for another, and then another … until he finally sits down in the shade of the old people’s tree, his life having been nothing but a continuous construction, with no time left for moving in.

Or perhaps she was being unfair. There had certainly been times when Myrina sincerely enjoyed the challenges of the farm and the company of new friends equally passionate about hunting. And Lilli, too, seemed happy here. It was true the girl’s nights were once again tormented by evil dreams, but her days were merry and full of cats and ducks and joyful tasks. Lady Otrera took special care that those of her daughters who were unable to fully participate in the general mayhem—and there were several such girls, for the locals did not care to raise them—never lacked things to do, never found themselves without responsibilities that were uniquely theirs. So much so that Lilli had developed quite the attitude of being indispensable to the mechanics of the kitchen and guarded her realm with ever-growing ownership.

“I dread to think,” she had said to Myrina, only a few weeks earlier, “what they ate before we came. Will you help me clean out the larder? No one seems to care about these things.”

Seeing she had little else to do, Myrina had agreed to the project. Together, the two sisters had cleaned out the cellar, finding this and that, tasting and spitting out … but most important, they had been able to talk privately about their hopes for the future. By sunset that day, when the larder was finally organized, Myrina had felt confident they were equally fond of their new life and could think of no better place to be.

But then Paris returned. And with him came a swarm of emotions
and ambitions that had chased Myrina wherever she went, stinging her continuously, regardless of how many times she plunged into the pond behind the barn, nearly drowning herself to escape them.

Sitting down to dinner that night, after saying good-bye to Paris and seeing him ride off in the twilight, Myrina could almost feel it coming through the open windows: the call of Troy. She had heard it described often enough as a magnificent city with proud walls and towers, but tonight it had assumed a new radiance; it was the home of a man who would deny her nothing, and whose nearness was so captivating, she could think of little else.

Closing her ears to the usual kitchen chatter, Myrina spent the hour after dinner setting mousetraps. It was perhaps not the noblest of pursuits, but she found a strange satisfaction in doing what had to be done with as little suffering to the victims as possible. So intent was she on wiring her cunning contraptions she did not even notice she had an audience until Lady Otrera put a hand on her head and said, “I was wondering why I am no longer disturbed by the screeching of dying mice. All I hear now is a snap, and then silence.”

“If only,” muttered Myrina, struggling with a knot, “one could wire human hearts as easily.”

“Come.” Lady Otrera gestured for her to get up. “Let us walk. It is such a calm evening.”

Right away Myrina knew what lay behind the invitation. The all-seeing mother of the house had learned of her clandestine trips to the beach, either from an eyewitness or from simple deduction. The Trojan ship had been moored in the harbor for three weeks, yet Paris had only come to dinner once. Why? What did he have to hide?

Bracing herself for the scolding she deserved, Myrina followed Otrera through the vegetable garden to the meadow beyond. Here, bathed in the light of the rising moon and casting a distorted shadow on the wild grains, stood the Tree of Chimes—an old hardwood with wind flutes hanging from its branches. No one had yet explained to Myrina the logic of this tree and its mournful sighs, but she had long since guessed it served as a guardian of the dead, whose ashes—she assumed—were buried in the ground beneath it.

Puzzled by their destination, Myrina stopped beside Otrera, waiting for her to speak. She feared the subject would be sin and punishment, and was already preparing to protest her innocence when Lady Otrera reached out to caress the bark of the tree, saying, “You never met Sisyrbe. She was the finest daughter I ever had. Never broke a rule, never refused a task. A brilliant rider. But she was struck down by a fever before fully grown. And Barkida”—Otrera paused to steady her voice—”fell from a horse and broke her neck. She and so many others died too young. So you see, Fate does not always favor the deserving. All we can do is be honest to ourselves and hope for the best. An unhappy life, cut short by an unfair death … surely, that is the greatest tragedy.”

They stood quietly for a while, looking up at the silent chimes. Then Myrina, failing to find criticism in what she had just heard, said, “You are telling me to … be happy?”

Otrera gathered her skirts and began walking farther into the meadow, following a little path to a stone bench overlooking the sloping expanse of the horse enclosures. “Who am I to divine what Fate has in store for you?” she said at last, sitting down on the bench. “I am merely telling you what is in my heart.” She patted the bench to encourage Myrina to sit next to her. “Come, and let me tell you about the man I loved.”

Myrina dropped to the seat with a gasp, and her shocked expression made Otrera laugh. “Have no fear. It was a long time ago, and our love never became more than mere admiring looks. For I did nothing to encourage him. I was, after all, devoted to the Goddess.” She paused to give Myrina a stern look, then continued, “And so this inconstant man pursued my sister instead, persuading her to cast off her vows and become his wife.” Otrera smoothed her skirt with both hands, reliving, perhaps, the sorrow of times past. Then she sighed and said, “Foolishly, they celebrated their wedding here, under the roof of the Goddess, and true to her jealous nature, she gave them a most terrible omen in return. For on their wedding night a fire broke out, and the roof of their building collapsed, nearly killing them both.” Otrera shook her head. “You can imagine the seers predicting death and doom everlasting, advising
them to kill the child that was conceived that night. But, of course, my sister refused to take such a cruel and superstitious measure, and the boy was raised with much love, to become a favorite of his people.”

Myrina moved uncomfortably on the bench. She suddenly remembered Paris telling her, upon their arrival in Ephesus, that Lady Otrera was his mother’s sister, and that his parents had met right there, on the farm. Was it possible, she wondered, that Paris had been the child conceived in the fire? Could such a capable, smiling boy—now a man—have been born among such evil omens?

“So you see”—Otrera threw up her hands only to let them drop, once more, limply into her lap—”if I had really loved that man, I would be a bitter old woman. I would say the Goddess had punished
me
rather than
her.
” She paused, then straightened. “But only the unwise cast premature judgment. Fate is patient. Sooner or later, she will find you.”

“The vows I made,” began Myrina, “were for the Moon Goddess—”

“And for your sisters.”

“True.” Myrina leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “But I like to think I have long since paid off my debts to them. As for the Goddess … she did nothing to protect us. If anyone has betrayed our holy vows, it is
her.

“Careful.” Otrera held up a hand. “Even the gods must obey Fate. Perhaps there is some grand scheme in heaven … perhaps not. But let us not mock powers we don’t understand.”

“I am sorry,” whispered Myrina, bending her head. “I never could hold my tongue in the face of injustice.”

Otrera patted her hand. “And for that alone, we shall miss you dearly.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Men whose glory is come by honestly Have all my admiration. But impostors Deserve none: luck and humbug’s all they are.

—E
URIPIDES,
Andromache

TROY, TURKEY

F
OR AS LONG AS SHE LIVED WITH US, GRANNY HAD MADE NO BONES
about loathing men, or, as far as I was concerned, boys. Not because they were necessarily wicked, but because she considered them a waste of our time. “Don’t let some fluffy-haired puppy-boy interfere with your training,” she kept saying, never tiring of the repetition. “Later, when you are mature and have proven your worth, you may enjoy the company of a healthy male the way you enjoy a good meal. Eat, sleep, and forget.”

It might never have occurred to Granny that I needed such explicit advice, however, had not Rebecca—in a typical moment of clandestine overflow—blurted out the story behind the presence of the Manor Park golf ball in our little hidden box of collectibles. “We think it belongs to James Moselane,” she whispered, cradling the ball in her hands as if it were a baby bird.

“Huh,” said Granny, sniffing the miniature bar of hotel soap with disgust. “Who is James Moselane, and why do his balls deserve to be in this box?”

When Rebecca finally stopped explaining, Granny shook her head and said, “You must rid your mind of these useless thoughts. Both of you. And train harder! Your arms are still too weak.” She reached out to test Rebecca’s shoulder. “When you are strong enough to pull yourself up, and when you have slain a man in battle,
then
you may play with James Moselane. But not before. And remember to share. Do you understand?”

Now, as we stood together among the Trojan ruins, watching James approaching, Rebecca looked as terrified as she had that day long ago, listening to Granny’s instructions. And so, I feared, did I.

“James!” I exclaimed, my heart aflutter as I tried to decide how to greet him. Normally we never touched, except for a brief but possibly accidental caress whenever he helped me with my overclothes. But this time he walked right up to me and kissed me on the cheek.

“Morg,” he said, smiling warmly, “I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.” Then he turned to Mr. Telemakhos and Dr. Özlem, greeting them as if they were old friends.

Meanwhile, behind his back, I saw Rebecca glancing nervously at Nick, then at me, as if to ascertain that the feelings I had confessed to her on the boat were in no way so progressed as to leave us in something as sordid as a love triangle. But we had nothing to fear from Nick; he looked at me as if I was not even there, or, perhaps more accurately, as if I were a complete stranger, barely worthy of a change of expression. I could only hope to come across as blasé as he.

In contrast to the rest of us, Nick didn’t seem the least bit surprised by James’s sudden appearance. “I was wondering when you’d join us,” he said, shaking the proffered hand with measured enthusiasm, “ever since your name showed up on my phone.”

“Yes, well”—James wrung out a brisk smile—”I meant to come earlier. Oxford likes to keep tabs on its assets. Nick, did you say?”

“You know who I am.”

One would have to know James well to see the irritation tugging at his face; it could easily be mistaken for a smile. “I hear our lawyers are getting along famously,” he said. “Quite the witty letters going back and forth.”

Nick did not return the smile. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my sense of humor.”

There was a brief silence, during which the two men stared at each other as intensely as had they been a pair of duelists waiting for the handkerchief to drop. Then, finally, Nick walked away and James turned to me with a headshake. “Some people,” he said, just loudly enough for Nick to hear him, “simply can’t be happy with what they have, but
must
try to get their hands on other people’s possessions.”

I was not sure whether he was referring to me or to the Moselane Manor Collection, but took temporary refuge in the uncertainty. It was clear to me, however, that James had come to Troy to save me from the Aqrab Foundation; my last text to him had been sent from Nick’s phone. His presence here certainly seemed to suggest that he wanted to take our friendship a step further. Why else would he go to the trouble of tracking me down in Turkey when he knew I would be back in Oxford within days?

“Do tell me,” I said, as everyone started toward the parking lot and we had a chance to fall behind. “How did you know we would be here today?”

James stopped and took my hand. “Morg,” he said, looking at me with those hypnotic, bottomless eyes of his, “I have called and called—”

His sincerity made me soften. “My phone was stolen,” I told him. “I meant to fly home three days ago, but … things got complicated. My students probably hate me by now.”

“How did you get this bruise?” James touched his fingers to my temple with uncharacteristic tenderness. I hadn’t even realized the bump was still visible. “Don’t worry, young Morgan.” He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze. “I’m here now, and everything is under control. When I got your text, I thought to myself: You know what,
I
have never actually been to Troy. Maybe now’s the time.” He glanced at Nick, who was waiting for us next to Dr. Özlem’s van, fingers drumming on the faded metal. “Besides, my uncle has a place on the Black Sea. Any excuse to drive his cars”—James nodded at
the only other vehicle left in the parking lot: a racing green Aston Martin—”while saving damsels in distress.”

T
HE ÖZLEMS LIVED IN
a tiny farmhouse in the middle of a cow pasture. The more I looked around the humble dwelling, the more convinced I became that it had originally been built to house livestock, not humans.

“I am not going to light the fire,” announced Dr. Özlem at one point, kindling my suspicions about the building, “because my wife thinks it smells too much like cows when the walls get warm. As for me”—he gestured sadly at his nose—”I can’t smell anything anymore. They say it happens sometimes.”

Although she spoke no English, Mrs. Özlem understood the gist of the conversation, and I felt a twinge of pity when I saw the haunted look on her gentle face. Slight of build and dressed in threadbare gray tones, she moved about with the pained grace of an aging ballerina, her every step and gesture devoted to the well-being of her husband. If Mr. Telemakhos had not already more than hinted at Dr. Özlem’s illness, the entrenched worry on Mrs. Özlem’s face would have told us everything we needed to know about her husband’s fragility.

“What a charming cottage,” said James, who had readily accepted an extended dinner invitation and was now doing his best to compensate our host with cheery remarks. “I imagine this would be considered traditional Turkish architecture?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Özlem, pouring cloudy water for everyone from a three-legged brass pitcher. “Turkish architecture for cows. That was our house, up there.” He nodded at a framed photograph on the wall. “We sold it to pay for the lawyers. Our son is studying law, but too late.” He began handing out the water glasses, his gestures as dignified as if they had been filled with the finest champagne. “Now I wish he was becoming a doctor. Or a plumber. A plumber would be nice.”

Later, over dinner at two small tables put together, James smiled at everyone and said, “So, how is the Amazon hunt going? I’m surprised it has taken you so long to get here. Isn’t Turkey supposed to be true Amazon territory? Wasn’t the Artemis temple at Ephesus, just south of
here, allegedly built by the Amazons? One of the Seven Wonders of the World, if I’m not mistaken?” He glanced at Dr. Özlem for confirmation.

“Some scholars,” nodded our host, thankfully oblivious to the teeth-gritting tension around the table, “believe there were quite a few matriarchal societies in the ancient Mediterranean world—for example on the island of Lemnos—but that the spread of the male-dominated Greek culture pushed these societies farther and farther east, until they ended up as colonies on the Black Sea coast. It is possible that Ephesus was a matriarchal society, too, and the many legends and names linking the Amazons to this region suggest there once was a matriarchal tradition here.”

“Which is why, I imagine”—James shot me a smile, acknowledging that he was borrowing my turn of phrase on the subject—”heroes such as Hercules considered it their duty to occasionally spearhead a preemptive campaign against them and steal their girdles.” Still smiling, James looked at Nick across the table. “Are you familiar with the Twelve Labors of Hercules? It was one of them, you know: stealing the Amazon queen’s girdle. Have you had any success with that so far?”

Nick looked at James with the oddest expression, as if his thoughts were far away. Then he suddenly snapped to and said, “I’m not as literate as you when it comes to women’s underwear.”

A thunderclap of laughter from Mr. Telemakhos finally did away with the doomsday atmosphere. Even Rebecca perked up enough to whisper into my ear, “
Please
let’s stick with the myths and not get personal.”

Although not in a mood to make merry conversation, I knew she was right. “Allow me to elucidate,” I said to Nick and James, “since
I
am the one with a degree in Amazon fashion. A girdle, somewhat disappointingly, is merely a large belt that protects the lower torso. The Bronze Age version of bulletproof granny knickers. A man would use his girdle to carry weapons, such as a sword or dagger, while a woman—at least in literature—wore a girdle as a symbol of protection and virginity. In the case of the Amazon queen, of course, it would mean both. By stealing her girdle, Hercules would in a sense remove both her masculine
power and her female dignity. Or, less philosophically, he raped her
and
stole her pepper spray. What a hero.”

After the passing around of several bowls and platters, Mr. Telemakhos said to Nick, “If you like, we can continue up the coast and visit the Amazon homeland on the south shore of the Black Sea.” He nodded at Dr. Özlem. “Murat knows all the archaeologists digging at Karpu Kale and Ikiztepe—”

At this, finally, Rebecca was able to rally her spirits. “Yes, please!” she exclaimed, looking at the two older men as if they had offered her a seat in a lifeboat. Then something occurred to her, and she glanced nervously at me. “What do you say, Dee? A few more days—?”

Before I could even begin to reiterate all my reasons for
not
continuing another mile on Mr. Telemakhos’s floating prison, James leaned into the conversation, saying, “Actually, I’m going to steal Diana away for a party in Istanbul tomorrow night.”

I was not the only one staring at him with disbelief. “Thanks for the invitation,” I said, “but I’m going to have my own little five-day party hitchhiking back to Britain.” Seeing James’s confusion, I hastened to add, “I lost my passport.”

“Oh, don’t be daft!” he exclaimed. “My uncle works at the British Consulate in Istanbul. I can get you a new passport in an hour. It’ll be ready after the party.”


What
party?” asked Rebecca, on behalf of everyone.

James smiled, but mostly to me. “Remember Reznik, the collector you wrote to about the
Historia Amazonum
? He is hosting a bash tomorrow—a sort of masquerade. I took the liberty of annexing a spot on the guest list. Thought it would be a brilliant opportunity for you to meet the man.”

I looked at Nick across the table. He had claimed the Moselanes were in bed with Grigor Reznik and his Geneva smugglers…. Was it really true? Months ago, when I had first told James about my letters to Reznik, he had not said anything about being personally acquainted with the man.

Meeting my eyes with unusual solemnity, Nick shook his head discreetly, as if to say, “Don’t do it.”

“Reznik!” blurted Mr. Telemakhos, incapable of restraining his abhorrence for another second. “That son of a donkey has a big house in Istanbul full of stolen antiques. He even brags about it to foreigners and celebrities, to make them think he is somebody. Where do you think Murat’s two stolen Amazon bracelets are now? Huh?” He glared at James, evidently holding him responsible by association.

“They say he has a vault in the basement”—Dr. Özlem touched a palm to his chest, as if to calm his heart—”full of gold from Troy that no one ever knew existed. Our boy went to university with Reznik’s son, Alex, and says that he bragged freely about his father’s crimes. Like father, like son. Poor devil. It all caught up with him in the end.”

“Devil, yes,” said Nick, his eyes narrow. “Poor, no.”

“Well,” said James, looking somewhat irritated at my lack of enthusiasm, “
I
am going to the masquerade, and you’re welcome to accompany me.”

“All of us?” Rebecca straightened with sudden inspiration, then turned to me and exclaimed, “This is fantastic! James and I will distract Reznik while
you
take a look at the
Historia Amazonum.

“Great idea,” I said. “Will you also bail me out of jail later?”

James rolled his eyes. “The manuscript is on display in Reznik’s library, for everyone to see. It isn’t even wired to an alarm.”

“How do you know that?” I asked him, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

“Ooooh!” boomed Mr. Telemakhos, shaking his head wistfully. “Would I like to get my hands on that manuscript. They say it holds vital information about the fate of the last Amazons.”

“Last?” I looked at him, puzzled. If he sincerely believed Amazons were still around, how could he refer to any of them as the last?

Mr. Telemakhos shrugged, and the whole table wobbled. “I am just repeating what I have heard. That is the thing about the
Historia Amazonum:
We’ll never know until it is properly translated and published.” He nodded at me across the table. “Eternal fame, my fair-haired philologist, will befall the scholar who accomplishes that task.”

“You mean, who steals it from Reznik?”

“Steals … borrows … sweet-talks.” Mr. Telemakhos did not look
overly concerned with the legal scope of the act. “When it comes to that man, I would say anything goes.”

I could feel Nick’s warning glare, but ignored it. “All I want is to have a quick look—”

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